


Of the Monsters That Haunt You, I am the Worst

by TheLastWhiteRose



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Cliffhangers, F/M, Ghosts, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 21:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastWhiteRose/pseuds/TheLastWhiteRose
Summary: Today was the day. Today was the day where he ended the cyclic hell that defined his life. Today was the day where he stopped the sheer agony life had become. Today was the day everything ended, and when he opened the kitchen cabinet, there lay the solution. A hunk of cast iron, melded to create a machine that was only meant to kill. He took it, before a scrap of paper caught his eye.





	Of the Monsters That Haunt You, I am the Worst

**Author's Note:**

> This is another one of those works that I refurbished. It was initially written about a year ago, but I just found it in my google docs because I was sad.

Gentle hands caressed Hyun’s angelic face, brushing a stray lock of hair from his sculpted jawline. The movements were clement, restrained, as if the person behind them feared getting too close. He was asleep, after all, and if he woke, or even stirred, she'd sever the connection immediately, regardless of how much it hurt her.

(MC) was dead, and had been for some time. The logistics of her death hadn't been solved, and only she knew that it was, indeed, a suicide. She hadn't left a note, or even hinted to what ulterior motives she might've had. She knew that it was unfair, cruel, even, but she wanted to be remembered fondly, and not as the woman who had selfishly chosen to end her life. (MC) took small, measured steps, reaching the edge of the bed. She checked to make sure that there was no one else in the bed, and slipped inside.

The overwhelming warmth was unlike anything (MC) had ever experienced. It enveloped her, made her want to bury her face in his chest and forget, just for the time being, that she was dead. Zen’s body was curled in a fetal position, as if he was recoiling from her. She didn't blame him; if their positions had been reversed, she would've cried bloody murder by now. Nonetheless, it didn't stop her from inching closer, her hand placed directly between his pecs. His heartbeat was strong, resolute, never faltering between beats. (MC) couldn’t live with herself if it failed to beat because of her. She tore herself away from the addicting warmth of human life. There was no time.

The hallways echoed with lost memories, of Zen chasing her in order to get his boxers back, and of his gentle sighs of appreciation. She could almost hear him saying, “I’ll be back, babe!” as he had done thousands of times before. She could smell the pancakes he cooked on Sundays, the soft aroma of the craft beer he always drank. By the time she had gotten to the kitchen, where Zen’s best hidden secret resided, the linoleum tiles were drowning in tears. There was no time for reminiscing. She was on a mission, after all.

——————————————————————-

The side of his bed was unnaturally warm. Zen’s bleary eyes opened, focusing on the imprint left in his mattress. He was more than certain that he hadn’t picked up any girls last night, nor did he have any pets that would leave such a defined indent. More than that, the faint smell of citrus blossoms lingered. Zen pushed this aside. It was too early and he was too sober to be contemplating last night’s bad decisions.

He reached blindly for his phone, only to find that his notes app was already pulled up. The note itself was inconspicuous enough, reading, “Do your best! Even if no one’s watching, you owe it to yourself,” but Zen found it hard to believe that his drunk self would have enough bearings to write a fully coherent, if not positive, message for his sober self.

The apartment was littered with these notes, written on post-its or scrap pieces of paper. As Zen had thought, it was most definitely not him writing these. They were written in neat loops, or what was thought to be characteristically feminine handwriting. They all had the same touchy-feely sentiment to them, telling him that he deserved everything in life, that a little bit of adversity built character. Whatever. It was sentimental bullshit that life coaches and yoga instructors spouted like gospel. He didn’t need it, at least not where he was going.

Today was the day. Today was the day where he ended the cyclic hell that defined his life. Today was the day where he stopped the sheer agony life had become. Today was the day everything ended, and when he opened the kitchen cabinet, there lay the solution. A hunk of cast iron, melded to create a machine that was only meant to kill. He took it, before a scrap of paper caught his eye.

_If you’re reading this, there’s probably nothing I can do to stop you. Not verbally, at least. I know these past months have been tough for you. You’ve been dealing with a lot, and you’ve had to put on a brave face for so long. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’ve caused you suffering, I’m sorry that I made you go through this. Most of all, I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay alive for you. For us. Whatever you do, know that I love and support you, but that you have so much more to live for._

_Love always,_

_(MC)._


End file.
